


in our bedroom, after and before the wars

by writerforlife



Series: things we said [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Crying, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I am obsessed with the phone Steve gave Tony and it shows, M/M, Post-Civil War (Marvel), Pre-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Steve Rogers Feels, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-22
Updated: 2019-04-22
Packaged: 2020-01-23 17:30:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18554464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writerforlife/pseuds/writerforlife
Summary: Between Civil War and Infinity War, Steve tries to balance two lives, and Bucky tries to be himself again. They remember what it is to love each other, to exist together. They know it can't last forever.





	in our bedroom, after and before the wars

**Author's Note:**

> Who's ready for Endgame? Not me, certainly, hence writing fic as a coping mechanism!! You don't have to read the previous work in the series to understand this one, but if you like Peter and Tony's father-son relationship, you should!! This utilizes the things you said prompts and is set in the sweet spot between Civil War and Infinity War.

_ things we said with no space between us _

 

“Hey,” Steve whispered. 

Bucky’s eyes crinkled as he smiled. “Hey, Stevie.” 

Bucky had a home in Wakanda. It was small, like their apartment had been small in the forties, but open and welcoming. Steve could hear the soft sounds the goats and rustling grass made outside; if he went outside, he could see a tapestry of stars spread across the sky. 

They laid in Bucky’s bed, nose to nose, chest to chest.

Steve sighed as Bucky carded his hand through his hair, calloused fingers rough against Steve’s scalp. Steve touched the stump where his arm had once been. He liked that Bucky let him touch it. At first, Bucky had jerked away, shy about the scar tissue that snaked over his shoulder and torso; now, he leaned into the touch. 

Steve closed his eyes and touched his forehead to Bucky’s, sinking further into the bed. He liked having a bed. He didn’t have one, nowadays. That was one of the things he sacrificed for Bucky—a bed, a home, friendships. On bad days, when he, Sam, and Natasha traversed the world solving problems, he imagined all the beds he’d slept in throughout his life. His childhood bed, where he spent weeks in fevered hazes. The bed he and Bucky shared before the war. The sleeping bag he rolled out each night next to Bucky’s while the Howling Commandos purposefully looked the other way. His bed at the Avengers Tower. His DC apartment. Perhaps the bed he was in now was half his, or could be. 

He would give it all up for Bucky, over and over. 

_ He’s my friend _ , he’d told Tony. He wished he’d said more—that Bucky was half his soul, the only person in the world he could trust, the only person who knew him through and through. 

_ So was I,  _ Tony had said. 

Yes, Tony had been his friend. The problem was that he and Bucky occupied different spheres of his mind, and he would always, always choose and protect Bucky.

Always. 

Bucky moved his hand from Steve’s temple to his chest, trailing his fingers over his stomach and down to his hip bone. Steve pressed his face into the crook of Bucky’s neck. He was just as good as Steve remembered. Better. 

“What are you thinking about?” Bucky whispered. The night was too fragile for loud voices, too soft for harsh truths. Steve would have to leave in the morning—he couldn’t impose on T’Challa’s good will forever—and Bucky would stay. He wouldn’t know when he’d be able to come back or see Bucky again. 

But they had tonight.

“I would do anything for you,” Steve said softly. “You know that, right?” 

Bucky whispered his name, gently, reverently, and pulled him closer. 

 

_ things I said while you were crying _

 

Bucky noticed more things than Steve gave him credit for. It helped that Steve wasn’t as sneaky as he believed himself to be. 

He noticed when Steve’s smile didn’t stretch as wide during their FaceTime calls. He noticed the cuts and bruises that Steve tried to hide when he visited them. He noticed Steve searching Google Alerts for James Rhodes, Wanda Maximoff, Tony Stark.

He always noticed, especially when Steve visited him in Wakanda. 

Tonight, Steve showed up and Bucky’s door unplanned, unannounced, covered in blood. It stained his uniform, his face, his hair; bruises decorated the visible skin where blood didn’t reach. Two clear patches of skin streaked his cheeks. 

“Sam and Natasha?” Bucky said.

“It was a solo mission.” Steve swayed on his feet, eyes fluttering closed. “Solo.” 

Bucky took his elbow and guided him inside, bringing him to the bathroom. He sat him down on the closed toilet lid, then turned on the water to fill the tub. The quiet rush of water was the only sound. Bucky stripped off his boots and socks, showing his filthy feet and cracked toenails. He set to work on his uniform and finally his boxers, until Steve was undressed. Bucky helped him step into the tub and sit; the water immediately turned pink and gray. Steve sat unmoving as Bucky bathed him, moving the cloth over the worst of the dirt and blood; as best as he could with one hand, Bucky worked shampoo through Steve’s hair. Strange, how much and how little could change. He remembered doing this back in Brooklyn, remembering worrying that someone would hit too hard one day and he’d lose Steve forever. 

Once Steve was clean, he helped him from the tub and toweled him off. He was starting to worry about Steve’s silence. Usually, he opened up about the missions, the good and the bad after washing. Bucky left to get him clean clothes.

When he returned, his heart nearly stopped.

Steve was curled on the floor, knees pulled to his chest and head resting on his knees. His wet hair fell over his eyes, and goosebumps prickled his skin. 

“Stevie. Hey, Stevie.” Bucky knelt next to Steve and cupped his face in his hands.

“Sweetheart, you need to talk to me. Tell me what’s wrong.” 

Steve looked up. His eyes were red-rimmed, filled with tear. “I… I just… I can’t…  _ Buck _ .” 

He dragged in a terrible gasp and began to cry. 

Bucky maneuvered him to his feet and slung Steve’s arm around his shoulder, then brought him to his bed. They laid down together, and Bucky pulled the blankets over them. Steve sobbed; Bucky gathered him into his arms and rubbed his hand over his back. He could feel raised bruises and scrapes. Steve was trembling, tears flowing freely. 

“Sweetheart,” Bucky whispered. “Talk to me.”

“I failed,” Steve rasped. “I was supposed to save this family. I saved the mother. The father. The son…” He gasped and kept crying. “I couldn’t help him. I wasn’t fast enough. There were three entrances. I had two covered. I just…” Steve pressed his nose into Bucky’s chest. “I failed. I couldn’t save him.”

“Steve…” 

“I just think… I think about how if there had been another person there, I could’ve saved him. And when I started thinking about that, I started thinking about how I fucked up the Avengers.  _ Me.  _ I abandoned Stark in a Siberian warehouse. I fuck everything up.” 

“Stevie, we both know that’s not true.” 

Bucky didn’t know what else to say. Steve missed the Avengers, missed his old life, but whenever Bucky brought this up, Steve was quick to remind him that he would give it all up again. Bucky hated that. It shouldn’t have had to be an all-or-nothing situation, but it was, and it was their reality. They made the best of it, whatever it brought.

“I’d make it all go away if I could,” Bucky said softly. “I’d take all your pain.”

It was a powerful thing, to say that he would take all of Steve’s pain and mean it. Yet if he could transfer every ounce of Steve’s hurt to himself, he wouldn’t hesitate. 

 

_ things we said with too many miles between us  _

 

“Steve?” Sam called. “Natasha? Seen the news lately?” 

Steve braces his hands against the countertop in their shitty motel room bathroom. Colombia. He never thought he’d find himself in Colombia chasing down weapons dealers, but here he was. They hadn’t been anywhere with a TV in nearly two weeks. He didn’t want to see the news. If Sam was telling him about it, it wasn’t good. 

“Steve!” Natasha shouted. 

He staggered from the bathroom, clutching his injured shoulder, and froze in front of the TV. His head spun as he sat down hard on the bed.

“... vigils for billionaire Tony Stark in Central Park,” the reporter on-screen said. The footage cut to rings of people standing with candles and Iron Man memorabilia. “Stark went missing a week ago. Inside sources say the FBI has received mysterious video footage, but beyond that, there has been no sign of Iron Man. CEO of Stark Industries and Stark’s fiance, Pepper Potts, made a statement earlier in the evening.”

“Natasha?” Steve said.

She flipped her laptop open. “On it.”

The screen cut to Pepper standing in front of a crowd, her eyes bright but composure intact. “Please find your way home, Tony,” she said. “There are people who need you.”

“Fuck,” Natasha said. 

Sam made it to the computer first and inhaled sharply. “Christ.” 

As soon as Steve saw the screen, he ran his hand over his beard and swore. Tony was in a dark, cramped cell, bruises smattered over his bare chest and dried blood crusted over his skin The arc reactor glowed faintly, illuminating the dark bags under his eyes and bruised wrists. Manacles kept his hands elevated over his shoulders; his head dipped against his chest. 

A man came into the shot. He asked Tony a question Steve couldn’t quite make out; Tony muttered something in response. The man didn’t like the answer. He kicked Tony’s abdomen once, twice, and punched him in the face. Tony’s head snapped back like his neck was broken. When he looked back toward the camera, fear flooded his eyes. 

Steve strode toward his uniform. 

“Steve,  _ no _ ,” Natasha said. “We can’t go to the US.”

“Why not?” he snapped. “We didn’t sign the Accords for a reason. This is why. If we can’t help one of our own, then what can we do? You saw the video. If it’s been a week…” 

“Steve, man,” Sam said softly. “Stark’s a smart dude. He’ll find his way out of there, and if he can’t, someone will be there to save him. We can’t hop a dozen borders to find him.”

They were right. Steve knew they were right. He hated that. He hated feeling like he’d abandoned Tony, hated that he hadn’t been able to keep the Avengers together. Without another word, he stepped outside, taking out his phone. 

_ You hear about Stark? _ he texted Bucky. 

Bucky immediately replied.  _ Yeah.  _

_ I want to find him. But I’m stuck. We can’t go.  _ He paused, inhaling the cool night air before typing,  _ He could be dead.  _

He didn’t know what he would do if Tony was dead. In the back of his mind, all this was temporary. He didn’t know what came in between, but he imagined a future in which the Avengers were together—a golden age of sorts. He liked the idea of fighting alongside Tony again. He liked thinking of Tony accepting Bucky and learning to like him. He liked thinking of himself and Bucky in New York again, maybe visiting Pepper and Tony together. 

Bucky didn’t reply. 

A day passed. More problems arose in Colombia. Steve dealt with it as impersonally as possible, thoughts with Tony. Whenever he could, he kept the news on, waiting. He knew Sam and Natasha talked behind his back, but he didn’t care. Two more days. Steve texted Bucky, but he didn’t reply. It wasn’t unusual, with phone service and busy schedules. He didn’t think much of it. Another day. Nothing. 

Finally, on the fourth day, when Steve was alone in the motel room, a special bulletin interrupted the international news. 

“After eleven harrowing days, billionaire Tony Stark has been located and confirmed to be safe. He was being held in an abandoned New York warehouse. We have the exclusive footage of his dramatic rescue.”

Steve sat on the bed, hand pressed over his mouth, as the video played. The same camera that had captured his torture filmed as a masked man in black disarmed three men in a blur of fluid motion. Steve leaned forward, a question forming in his mind. Four more men with guns entered, but the savior sheathed a blade in each of their chests His black glove slipped off. 

If he hadn’t been looking for it, Steve wouldn’t have seen it.

But it was there.

A flash of a silver hand. 

The savior sprinted to Tony and released him from the chains; he lowered Tony to the ground gently, dialled a number of his phone, then sprinted away. 

Steve muted the TV and FaceTimed Bucky. 

It rang three times before Bucky answered. His sweaty hair clung to a fresh cut on his forehead, and despite accepting the call, he didn’t meet Steve’s eyes. 

“Where are you?” Steve said.

“Wakanda,” Bucky said in a bald-faced lie. 

“No.” Steve shook his head. “You are not. You pulled Tony out of that warehouse.” 

Bucky looked away, hair falling into his face and framing a bruise on his jaw. 

“Why?” Steve whispered.

“You saw what they were doing to him. A Hydra cell had him, and I just couldn’t…” Bucky met Steve’s eyes again. He swallowed hard. “You aren’t the only one who feels guilty.”

“Buck—”

“I killed his parents, Steve. Before you say anything, I know I don’t remember it, I know it really isn’t my fault, but I still did it. I orphaned him. I killed his mom. Stark isn’t a bad guy. I know he’s your friend, and I know he wants the best for the world. If you couldn’t do it, I thought…” A smile played over Bucky’s lips. “I didn’t have anything better to do.”

Tears formed in his eyes. God, he loved this man, more than he knew how to deal with. 

“Talk to me,” Bucky said. 

“I feel so guilty,” Steve whispered. “He hurt you. I had to stop that, but the whole situation was so  _ bad.  _ I want to apologize to him, more than anything, but I don’t have the right words.”

Bucky smiled softly, reassuringly. “You’ll find a way. One day. What’s important today is that he’s alive.”

 

_ Things you said when we were the happiest we’ve ever been _

 

Steve was visiting. 

Bucky sat on the couch as Steve padded around the kitchen, cooking something that smelled spicy and sweet at the same time. Steve was barefoot, shirtless, his navy blue sweatpants hanging low on his hips. His hair and beard were mussed from when they were in bed together earlier, tangled together before they got hungry and Steve offered to cook. Strands of his hair shone gold in the light that filtered through the window from the sunset; when he turned, his cheeks were golden, too, and his eyes alight. He bit his lip as he turned back to the pan, humming under his breath. The TV played quietly, but Bucky didn’t watch. 

Bucky remembered Brooklyn light coming through their window, decades, lifetimes ago. Steve had been sickly, then. He remembered long nights spent at Steve’s bedside, splintered pieces of woods digging into his knees as he prayed for him to live; he remembered coming home exhausted, broken, questioning why he worked as hard as he did until he saw Steve napping on the couch, his open sketchbook laying across his chest. He remembered pressing his mouth into Steve’s shoulder, muffling his moans so the neighbors didn’t hear through the thin walls; he remembered dancing barefoot in the kitchen. There was something beautiful, now, about seeing Steve’s worn boots by the door, unlaced and dirty socks strewn over them, next to his own sandals. It meant that Steve wasn’t running any time soon, that the threat was far enough away for him to walk around without shoes. 

Suddenly, Bucky realized that nothing was wrong. Nothing. Something was  _ always  _ wrong, but now, they were okay—perhaps since the war. He wondered, not for the first time, what would happen if he and Steve simply ran away and began anew somewhere else. He imagined slipping a gold band over Steve’s left ring finger and Steve doing the same for him, confirming what they’d known for decades. It was Steve. For Bucky, it would always be Steve. Part of loving Steve, though, was accepting that he would never walk away from the fight. Bucky loved him enough not to ask or demand it. He would be here when Steve needed him. He would hold him through the nightmares, protect him in the battles, and love him when he let him. 

Like today.

Today, he was happy. Deliriously so. It wasn’t what he imagined overwhelming joy to be. There was nothing loud or flashy about it, nothing showy, only warmth blooming in chest. It was quiet. Subtle. But he couldn’t quite believe that after all the pain they’d been through, all the loss and turmoil, they were both allowed to be here, barefoot and tucked away in a beautiful country, and simply exist together. Against all odds, no matter what the following days could bring, they were here today, with this moment. 

When Bucky looked up, Steve leaned on the wall, arms folded over his chest and a slight smile across his face. Bucky raised an eyebrow as if to ask,  _ What?  _ Steve smirked and returned to the kitchen. He divided the contents of the pan onto two plates, grabbed two forks, and brought them to the couch. Bucky smiled to himself. An Italian pasta dish. Beat the shit they ate in the thirties and forties any day.

They ate in comfortable silence, the sun dipping lower into the sky as they finished. Steve cleared the plates, water running softly as he washed them in the kitchen, and then returned to the couch. He curled into Bucky’s side, exhaling; Bucky pushed him onto his back and settled between his thighs, then touched their foreheads together. Steve slid his hands under Bucky’s shirt, over his back, over the scars that littered his shoulders. Bucky pressed his lips to Steve’s, gentle, tenderly. 

“You wanna know something?” Steve whispered when Bucky pulled away. “If I could only live one day for the rest of my life, it would be today.”

“Me too, baby.” Bucky curled into his side, satisfied just to share the same space as him. “Me too.”

 

_ Things you said that made me feel like shit _

 

Steve knew it was bad when T’Challa called him.

“He seems unwell,” T’Challa had said over the phone. “I don’t know your current circumstances, but I assumed…” 

“I’ll be there.”

And here he was, outside of Bucky’s home. He raised his hand to knock, but Bucky wrenched the door open. Steve flinched. Dark, deep bags rested under Bucky’s eyes; he swayed on his feet, but managed to glare at Steve. He glared right back. After a moment, Bucky stepped aside, allowing Steve to come inside.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” he said darkly. 

“Hello to you, too, Buck,” Steve replied. 

Bucky turned on his heel and stalked back into the house without saying anything.

Steve followed him inside, shutting the door behind him. He froze. Pieces of the furniture were broken, and shattered fragments of glass lay scattered over various surfaces. Bucky prowled in the kitchen, banging dishes without purpose. 

“T’Challa told me you seemed off,” Steve called.

“I’m fine,” Bucky said.

“What’s all this glass and shit?”

Bucky turned to glare at Steve, eyes narrowed. “I’m. Fine.” 

Steve held his hands up and sat on the couch. He wasn’t going anywhere. After the sun went down, Bucky moved around the house like an animal pacing its cage. Steve remained stubbornly on the couch until Bucky swore under his breath. 

“I’m going to bed,” he snapped. 

“Goodnight, Buck.” Steve waited until the bedroom door slammed shut, then stood and began cleaning the broken glass. He cleared the furniture and shards away, forming a neat pile by the door to take out in the morning. Moonlight streamed through the open windows; he wondered if Bucky just had a few off days and T’Challa reacted badly.

Then, the screams came. 

Without thinking, Steve sprinted to the bedroom and tried the door. Locked. “Bucky!” he shouted. “Buck, let me in!” 

The screams continued. Steve stepped back, then surged forwards and kicked down the door. As soon as it hit the ground, Steve went inside. Bucky thrashed in bed, the sheets tangled around his middle and his arms—flesh and metal. His sweaty hair clung to his forehead and the pillow as he screamed, the sound breaking and cracking. 

“Bucky,” Steve whispered. 

Logically, he knew not to interfere. Nightmares were dangerous, especially when they were Bucky’s nightmares. But when Bucky sobbed—a desperate, unhinged sob—he rushed forward and tried to pull the sheet away, shouting his name the entire time. Bucky’s eyes flew open, and Steve sank against the mattress. His shoulders slumped. In the beginning, Bucky was bad, but he’d improved. He’d told Steve that he improved. That he was okay. 

Suddenly, a force slammed his back against the bed. 

Bucky straddled him, thighs locked hard around Steve’s hips. He snarled, wrapped his metal hand around Steve’s throat, and  _ squeezed.  _ Bucky’s eyes were dead, impassive. Steve choked and scratched at Bucky’s hand. 

“Buck—” he managed. 

He thrashed in Bucky’s grip, trying to kick his feet up and free himself, but Bucky forced him down, growling. His vision flashed black and white. God, Bucky would kill him like this. He’d strangle him, not in a fight or when he was the Winter Soldier, but in their bed. 

“Bucky,” he whispered hoarsely. “I love you. I love you.” 

The pressure around his throat lessened. He pushed Bucky away and tried to run, but fell off the bed onto his knees, gasping for breath. A second set of gasps accompanied his. Bucky sprawled on the bed, his chest rising and falling rapidly, but he stumbled to his feet and glared at Steve.

“I  _ told  _ you,” Bucky shouted. “I fucking told you! Do  _ not  _ interfere.”

Steve stood, relying on the wall to support him. “Buck—”

“Did you even think? Do you  _ ever  _ think before you rush into something, thinking you know what’s best for everyone before they even say something? Maybe I didn’t want you here for a reason, Steve. Do you think you’re God and you can manage everyone’s lives? You don’t know anything. Can you manage not to fuck things up?”

As Bucky quieted, Steve studied the floor, tears burning in his eyes. He left the bedroom without saying anything and went to the kitchen. He sat at the table and rested his head in his hands. His throat pulsed with pain and bruising welts. It would fade, soon. The sinking feeling in his stomach that Bucky was right wouldn’t. He would carry that for weeks, months even. It would stay with him, harsh and painful, long after the bruises faded. He turned the sentences over in his mind for hours, the pain in his neck all-consuming. 

As darkness fully settled, Bucky padded into the kitchen, eyes red-rimmed and metal arm off. He sat across from Steve, not meeting his eyes, but looking at his bruised neck. He inhaled sharply.

“Your neck,” he whispered. 

Steve shook his head. “I’ll be okay.” His voice was hoarse, scratchy. 

“I could have killed you.”

“You wouldn’t have.”

Bucky slammed his fist on the table. “You would have let me. I can’t believe you intervened. I never would have forgiven myself.”

“Don’t worry. I managed not to fuck things up,” Steve said flatly. 

“Stevie.” Bucky reached forward, but withdrew his hand at the last moment. “I didn’t mean to say that.”

“But you think it.”

“No. I…” Bucky finally met Steve’s eyes with his own tortured gaze. “I was so scared. I’m terrified. I’ve been having nightmares, and I don’t want to admit to Shuri that her programming or whatever she did to me didn’t work. I remember the trigger words. I remember the people I killed. I remember hurting you. And when I came back to, just now, and saw my own hand wrapped around your neck and your eyes rolled back in your head and face purple, it was like I’d woken up to another nightmare, baby.” 

“I’m sorry,” Steve whispered. 

“Me too.” 

They sat in silence for a long time, not looking at each other. Then, Bucky reached across the table and brushed his fingers against Steve’s bruised throat. He stood and shuffled over to behind Steve, then pressed his lips to his neck. 

Bucky grabbed his hand, led him through the house and to the bed; he stood in the corner while Steve remade the bed. Steve laid down first, then Bucky next to him, with his back facing Steve’s chest. Steve draped his arm around Bucky’s middle and pressed her forehead to the curve of his neck. His breaths evened, but Steve remained awake. 

_ Can you manage not to fuck everything up?  _

Even if Bucky hadn’t meant it, it still resonated. 

He remained awake for a long time before fading into sleep. 

 

_ Things that you said you loved about me _

 

When Steve showed up at his door, eyes watery, face drawn and pale, stance unsteady, Bucky came to an immediate conclusion. 

“You’re sick,” Bucky said. 

“Am not,” Steve snapped. His voice was hoarse. “Serum.”

“Well, some super flu got through that serum.” He touched Steve’s forehead. “You’re burning up, punk. Tell me the truth. How do you feel?”

Steve worked his jaw. “Like the goddamn Hulk knocked me around.”

“There we go. Come inside.”

Bucky led Steve to the bedroom and guided him onto the bed. A moan escaped Steve’s lip as his hips hit the mattress; Bucky smirked to himself and helped him lay down. He really was feverish. A decades-old anxiety arose in him. He almost felt the draft from their old Brooklyn apartment prickling at the back of his neck. Now, Steve curled into himself, cheek pressed against the pillow.

“I’ll get a cold cloth,” Bucky said. 

Steve mumbled something unintelligible. God, he must have been feeling shitty if he didn’t even want to argue. Bucky quickly dampened a dish towel in cold water and rushed back to the bedroom—but not so quickly that his rush was obvious. In the low winter light, Steve was even paler. Suddenly, he wanted to fall to his knees and begin praying, even if he’d left his faith back in the war. He’d spent hours kneeling on splintered wood next to their bed back then, Steve struggling for every breath while Bucky prayed for him to survive, if just for the night. 

“How’d this happen?” Bucky murmured as he laid the cloth over Steve’s forehead. 

“Dunno,” Steve replied weakly. “God, my stomach hurts too.” 

“Gonna hurl?”

“Not yet. We took down this biological weapons dealer. Could’ve picked it up there.”

“Steve.” Bucky’s breath hitched. “You need to go to Shuri or even Stark—”

“It’s not serious. I’ll be good. I have you.” He rolled onto his back and smiled blearily, his eyes crinkled and tired. “You’ve always taken care of me.”

His eyes closed. Bucky pulled a chair to the bedside and sat, not knowing what else to do. Despite everything he’d been through, he felt twenty-again, like Steve was a foot shorter, a good number of pounds lighter, and tucked into his bed. He could almost hear his rattly, wheezed inhales.  _ He’s healthier, now _ , he told himself.  _ He’s always been strong.  _

Even so, he knelt next to the bed, whispering prayers to a God he didn’t believe in because that’s what he did when Steve was sick. How easy it was to greet old habits. He imagined himself holding Steve’s frail body to warm him, pulling ridiculous hours at the dock to earn extra money, and when that didn’t work, stealing medicine to keep him alive. 

“Please don’t take him,” he whispered. “Please.”

An hour later, he pressed his hand to Steve’s forehead.

His heart nearly stopped. 

It was like touching a hot coal. 

“Hey, Steve. Time to get up, baby.” He pulled the blankets back, nearly crying as heat radiated out. A fever this high was dangerous. Beyond dangerous. Deadly. “Come on, Stevie, let’s get you cooled down.” 

He slung Steve’s arm over his own shoulder; Steve made an incoherent noise. His eyes were half-closed, half-opened. Bucky dragged him into the bathroom, thoughts racing. Should he alert Shuri? Should he call Stark, who probably had files and files of data on Steve, including his father’s? He mulled it over as he filled the tub with cold water and stripped Steve’s clothes off, then unceremoniously dumped him into the water. He knelt on the cold tile, muttering a prayer as he washed Steve’s fevered body. 

His temperature remained the same. 

“Okay.” He dragged Steve out of the tub—he was dead weight at this point. After wrapping him in a towel, Bucky dashed into the bedroom and rifled through Steve’s bag until he found what he needed. The phone. Steve carried it everywhere. Without pausing to consider the implications or consequences of what he was doing, he called Stark’s personal number. 

It rang. Bucky sank to his knees again and pressed his hand to his forehead. He was panicking. He couldn’t be panicking. But this felt so  _ immediate.  _ This was how he almost lost Steve a thousand times; he wasn’t supposed to be able to lose him like this anymore. 

The call connected. 

“This is Tony,” Stark said. 

“I need information on Steve’s health,” Bucky said without preamble. “What can help him if he gets sick?”

There was a long silence. “Barnes?” Stark finally asked. 

“What can help him if he’s sick?”

“Define sick.” 

“Dangerously high fever. Stomachache. He won’t open his eyes. He told me he went to investigate a biological weapons dealer.” 

More silence. This time, a clicking sound punctuated it, then a whoosh. “Yeah, he had those symptoms once. 2014. He hadn’t slept in three days, worked ridiculously long hours, and didn’t take care of himself. We had him on bed rest and plenty of fluids.”

“The fever broke?”

“Eventually. It doesn’t sound like something fucky. He should be fine, Barnes.” There was a shuffling on the other line. “Just a minute, kid,” Stark said—to a kid? That was with him? “Anything else, Barnes?”

“He’ll be okay?” He couldn’t keep the plaintive note out of his voice.

“Yeah.” Stark’s tone softened. “He’ll be fine.” 

He ended the call. Bucky exhaled, then got off the floor and returned to the bathroom. Steve blinked at him, pulling the towel tighter around his body.

“Why am I on the floor?” Steve whispered. 

Bucky’s head spun. “Fever.”

“Oh.” He leaned his head against the wall and sighed. “Can I go back to bed?”

He nodded, unable to form words. One day, he realized, he was going to lose Steve. Had he brought himself to this? No matter what Bucky did, Steve would always want a war, would always want a fight. He would always bring himself to this.

“Yeah, baby. Let’s get you back to bed.” 

He pulled Steve from the floor and helped him back to bed. Bucky tucked the covers around him, then started to leave.

“Buck?” Steve called weakly. 

Bucky turned. Steve propped himself up on one elbow, light from the window spilling over his bare chest. 

“I didn’t want to go to anyone else because I know you’ll always take care of me. You’re too good to me.” Steve sank back against the pillow. “I need… Buck…” He groaned. “Can you… can you hold me?”

Bucky returned to the bed and slid under the covers. Steve sighed and curled into Bucky’s side, his head settling on Bucky’s collarbone. He nuzzled his nose against Bucky’s shoulder; Bucky felt any anger or fear dissipate as he wrapped his arm around Steve.

“I have you,” he whispered. “I’ll always have you.”

 

_ Things you said when it began and ended _

 

“That was…” Bucky rolled onto his back and stretched out on the mattress, a languid smile across his lips. 

Steve chuckled to himself and pulled them blankets over them. “We still got it.” 

Bucky trailed his hand over Steve’s bare chest, down to his hips and thighs. “God, I can never get over you. You’re so beautiful.” 

Steve chuckled and turned his face away. Bucky turned it back.

“I mean it,” Bucky murmured. “You’ve always been so beautiful. Before. Now. Always.”

“God.” Steve kissed his forehead. “I’m lucky to have you.” 

Bucky grinned and straddled Steve, learning down to kiss him. Steve brought his hands to Bucky’s hips and grinned against his lips. He felt Bucky slide his thigh between Steve’s legs and chuckled. God, sometimes he adored the serum.

Then, his phone rang. 

Not the phone he kept for Bucky, Sam, and Natasha to contact him.m

The  _ other _ phone. The one only Tony had the number for.

Bucky rolled off him, and Steve lunged to his bag to answer the call. “Hello?” he said. Silence. “Tony. Tony, are you okay?”

“Steve?” Bruce’s voice.

His stomach sank. “Bruce. Where’s Tony?”

He started telling Steve about an alien who wanted the Infinity Stones, another invasion of New York, a spaceship. How Tony boarded it. How he hadn’t returned.

“And now Wanda and Vision are missing,” Bruce finished. “Can you find them?”

“I’ll be there as fast as I can.” He hung up, heart pounding and tears burning behind his eyes. He’d known ever since he gave Tony the phone that when he received a call, it would be because something awful happened. Something irrevocable. 

“What’s wrong?” Bucky asked.

Now was no time to think about that. It was time for action.

“Tony’s missing,” Steve blurted. He scrambled out of bed and grabbed his uniform, heart pounding. “Vision and Wanda are in danger. MIA. Idiots, both of them. Some alien want the Infinity Stones.” He thought of the mind stone embedded in Vision’s forehead. “Christ, I have to go. I have to go now, Buck. I think they’re in Scotland.”

Steve pulled underwear on, waiting for Bucky to say something. Nothing came. He pulled his uniform pants over his thighs, then the top. He jogged into the living room, hopping on his right leg, then left, to put on his socks. He grabbed his boots and collapsed onto the couch, but his hands trembled violently. Every time he tried to unlace them, he missed. 

Suddenly, the boots were pulled from his hands. Bucky knelt between his feet silently, eased Steve’s feet into the boots, and laced them. He looked up at Steve, biting his lip slightly and eyes lidded.  _ I could lose him _ , Steve thought.  _ This could be the time I lose hm.  _ He ran his fingers through Bucky’s hair, bringing his hand to rest at the nape of Bucky’s neck.

“I could send you off in style,” Bucky whispered. Steve chuckled, feeling his cheeks flush. “What, you’re still doing the blushing bride routine?”

“God, I wish. I have to go.” Steve ran his free hand through his beard. “Buck, he’s dead.”

“Nothing was confirmed.”

“He got onto a mysterious spaceship and disappeared into  _ outer space _ in just his suit. He’s dead. He’s dead, and I never apologized. I always thought I’d get to apologize one day.” Steve smiled to himself. “I liked to think of you two getting along. You would’ve liked him.” 

“I’m sorry, Stevie.” Bucky helped him to his feet, grabbing his hands. “I really am.”

Steve lunged forward and buried his face in Bucky’s neck. He’d been called away from Wakanda dozens of times before. This felt different. More final, more dangerous. 

“I wish I could stay,” he said. “Just once, I wish I could stay with you.”

“I know,” Bucky whispered. “I know. But you also want to save the world.”

Steve cupped Bucky’s jaw and kissed him deeply. Bucky leaned into him, and Steve imagined staying like this forever, just ignoring the call and letting whatever was going to happen happen. But he couldn’t.

That wasn’t who he was.

“I love you,” Steve whispered after he pulled away. “I love you more than anything.”

“I love you, too.” Bucky pressed their foreheads together. “Come back to me.”

Steve left, careful not to look back as he shut the door.

If he did, he may have stayed in bed. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Come chat with me about Marvel on tumblr (@such-geekiness)!!


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